


Onward, Not Backward

by thewightknight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Origin Story, Gen, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 05:12:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: "Grim doesn't talk much," Bull said. "I'm pretty sure he's the king of some small country. Or a chieftain. Something like that."





	Onward, Not Backward

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the ["Grim is really Alistair"](https://thewightknight.tumblr.com/post/169293355953/romancingalistair-romancingironbull) theory. Posted at 2am on New Year's Day, so pardon any typos or grammar errors.

When he dragged himself out of the bottom of a barrel in Kirkwall and took stock of himself, his first thought had been how disappointed Duncan would have felt in him. His second thought was that maybe it was time to stop thinking about what a dead man may or may not have thought and get on with his own life.

It took him awhile to sweat the alcohol out. He got a job at the docks, the only thing available to a sad sack of a Ferelden refugee. He barely made it through the first day. Some how he staggered through the second. He caught some of the other workers making bets on how long he'd last and perversely that gave him strength.

Lyrene gave him something to help with the shakes. His meagre pay got him barely enough to eat and a corner on the floor of a tavern that made The Hanged Man look like a five star establishment. His gut melted away and he started to feel as right in his skin as hard labor and poor food could get him. He knew he needed to get out, find something better, if he had any hope of ever recovering, getting something of himself back, but for now this would do. It was a start.

Or it would have been, if he'd kept his mouth shut. 

"Wrong ship." The seals proclaimed they were heading for Rivain, but he knew this ship was headed for Orlais. The other dockhands tried to shush him but he'd been overheard.

"What's this, then?" The cargo master tapped his whip against his leg as the other workers glared at Alistair.

"Wrong ship," he repeated, pointing. The cargomaster looked back between him and the crates, scowling as he checked his manifest. "He's right. They should be at the western dock. Get those out of here. "

"You're dead," someone whispered to him as the crates were wheeled away, and it dawned on him that he'd foiled someone's scheme. For the rest of the day everyone ignored him, but he caught sidelong glances and heard whispers whenever his back was turned.

That evening as he headed back to the tavern two toughs stepped out in front of him. 

"Shoulda kept your mouth shut, dog lover. You cost us. Gonna take it out of your hide."

He heard footsteps behind him. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that he'd been boxed in. Three more gang members had materialized, tapping their clubs in their hands as they approached.

If only he hadn't sold his shield and sword for drink. His dagger was a pitiful defense. When he drew it, they laughed.

Mairen had taught him a few things. He didn't want to remember her, or her betrayal, but his body remembered her lessons. He picked his target as they circled him, feinting under the first swing, scoring ribs, and stabbed in the gut of a second, a quick in and out, relieving him of the dagger in his belt as he retreated. A flick of the wrist resheathed it in the thug's eye socket. Always return the things you borrow, the Chantry sisters had told him. 

When the second thug hit the ground the remaining three finally realized they were facing something besides a simple laborer. All three charged him at once. He dropped and rolled, lashing out with his feet. He caught one knee, a lucky shot and the thug shrieked as he went down on top of him. Now partially shielded from the other two, he planted his dagger through the top of the nearest boot. While that thug hopped around, flailing his arms and screaming, he shoved the knee guy off, stealing his club while he was at it. Grabbing an abandoned barrel lid, he got it up in time to block the last thug's cudgel. He followed through with a blow to the ribs. His angle was bad so he only got in a glancing blow but it bought him a few moments to get his feet back under him. He threw it up again as the fellow whose foot he stabbed tried to return his dagger. The point sank into the wood, quivering where it landed.

Knee guy still rolled around on the ground, clutching his joint and screaming. Foot guy and rib guy had recovered somewhat, enough to stand and look menacing at least. And cudgel guy was pissed.

"You don't know when to quit, do you, Ferelden scum? Not just going to be a beating now. We're going to keep you alive for a long time, dog lover. Long enough that you'll beg us to kill you." 

In his former life he'd have made some witty comment in response but he seemed to have drunk most of his words and all of his humor away. Instead of responding, he dropped into a crouch, impromptu shield at the ready.

At some unspoken signal the three charged him. He feinted to the right then dove left at the last minute, stomping on the foot he'd stabbed earlier while he bashed at cudgel guy. Foot guy dropped his club and started hopping up and down on his good leg, running into ribt guy and taking them both down in a tangle of limbs. It looked like he might survive this after all, he thought, until he tripped over foot guy's club as cudgel guy moved in.

He brought his barrel shield up, catching the blow square. The cudgel shattered it, sending splinters everywhere, numbing his arm with the force of the blow. He managed to meet the next with his own stolen club but couldn't evade the kick that caught him in the ribs.

One of the other guys let out a gurgling shriek, enough to distract cudgel guy enough that Alistair managed to catch his foot on the next kick. With a twist he spun the thug off balance, flipping him into a stack of crates. This cleared his field of vision in time to witness gut guy bent double over an axe in his stomach. The qunari wielding the axe pulled back and swung again and rib guy's head went flying. Knee guy and foot guy had their arms around each other and were hobbling off together, redoubling their effort as the head landed in the alley a few yards ahead of them. Cudgel guy extricated himself in time to witness the desertion.

  
"We're not done here," he hissed at Alistair before running off in the other direction.

"Hope I didn't spoil your fun. It looked like you had the situation in hand, but I can never resist the chance for a good fight." An eyepatch covered one eye, and he winked at Alistair with the other one.

Alistair grunted his thanks, taking the hand offered to pull himself up.

"What was that about?"

He shrugged, grunted again.

"Not much of a talker, are you? Quite the scrapper though."

"There you are, boss!" a new voice called out, sparing him from trying to formulate an answer. "Getting into trouble again?"

"Nah. Just making new friends."

The newcomer, a human with a friendly face and the biggest warhammer Alistair had ever seen, jogged down the alley towards them.

"Another stray to add to the collection?"

A stray? That described him pretty well.

"Depends. You got a name, scrapper?"

Did he? He didn't feel like Alistair anymore. Needing to come up with something, he said the first name that came to mind.

"Grim." There'd been a Grim who worked in the kennels in Redcliffe.

"Grim, huh?" The qunari gave him a look, like that one eye saw straight through him. Alistair tensed, waiting for the barrage of questions he was sure would follow him. The qunari surprised him, though.

"I'm the Iron Bull, commander of the Bull's Chargers. We're a merc company, working our way through the Free Marches and Orlais. Lost a couple of folks in our last encounter, so I've got some extra slots. You looking for a job?"

"Hiring off the street now?"

"Krem de la Creme, he took on five guys with a dagger and a barrel and nearly won. Imagine what he'll do when we get some real weapons in his hands."

"Whatever, boss. Better hurry up. Our ship won't wait much longer."

"So how about it, Grimm? Pay's good, drink's better."

"No drink." He'd finished with that.

"Yeah, okay, I can see that. Not a problem. More for the rest of it. Welcome to the Chargers!"

"He didn't say yes, yet, boss."

"Yes he did."

This Iron Bull was a sharp one. He'd have to watch himself. But he seemed a good enough fellow, qunari or no. Alistair followed them to the docks, snorting in appreciation every now and then as they continued their banter all the way to the dock and up the gangplank.

The rest of the Chargers accepted him into the fold without question. Apparently he wasn't the first lost soul Iron Bull had recruited, and if the rest of his new companions were any indication, he wouldn't be the last. As they sailed under the statues at the edges of Kirkwall's harbor, he didn't look back. He'd wanted a new life and it had found him. Tomorrow would come, and whatever it brought would be better than what he'd left behind. And from here on out there was no more Alistair, Grey Warden, Prince of Ferelden. There was only Grim.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to say hi, [check out my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/profile) for where I’m currently hanging out on this here internet thing.


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